


Medicinal Heart

by sebacielfantasies



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coma AU, Coma Patient Saruhiko, M/M, Misaki Visits Him A Lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 04:53:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7420687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebacielfantasies/pseuds/sebacielfantasies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Misaki befriends a coma patient.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Medicinal Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this took longer than it probably should have, but luckily I made it in time for SaruMi Fest! Thank goodness, haha.
> 
> Alright, so. Since I'm no doctor, some of the medical details in this fic might be false, just to let you know. I researched to the best of my ability, but it was harder to find credible information on long term comas, unfortunately. So I'm probably messing up some details here and there. (For example, I'm pretty sure long term stable coma patients don't stay in the hospital; they eventually go to a facility or home of some sort? but you know)
> 
> Anyway, I really hope you like it, and happy SaruMi Day!

_ Patient Name: Fushimi Saruhiko _

_ DOB: Nov. 7, 1993 _

_ Age: 10 years old _

_ Status: Critical _

_ Additional Comments: Found unconscious at bottom of staircase upon ambulance’s arrival. No blood seen. Head trauma likely. Possible severe damage to RAS. _

 

Saruhiko should've known better to run through the mansion in his favorite blue socks. He should've known.

Because they were his favorite, they were well-loved and well-worn, which meant they had tiny holes where his toes peeked through and seams that were frayed and stringy. The blue color to them was dull and faded, almost gray after being worn and washed, worn and washed, so many times.

Worst of all, the socks no longer had any traction, which meant that unless he wanted to skid across the floorboards like a not-so-professional skier, running in them was not a good idea.

But when his father opens the door with a loud, “Saruhiko! I'm home, come on out so we can play~”  suddenly all he wants is to be anywhere but here, absolutely anywhere, and if he has to run in his favorite blue socks with no traction to make that happen, well.

The floorboards are slippery under his feet, as if he's on a thin coat of ice. But he doesn't have time to care about that, because he can hear his name being called in that singsong voice, can feel the laughter echoing off the walls, and all he has time to care about right now is that the stairs are up ahead and the stairs are an escape from  _ him. _

“Oh, does my little monkey want to play tag? As if you can run from me~!"

As if to prove him wrong, Saruhiko runs faster. He's sliding more than he is running, really, and he wonders if other kids his age do something like this for fun instead. If the circumstances were different, perhaps Saruhiko would like this too, this fast fast movement that almost feels like flying.

He makes it to the top of the staircase before he slips.

Along with the sensation of flying comes the sensation of falling, tumbling, plummeting. There's a loud crack as he falls, and he wonders dimly if the sound came from his head, colliding with the stairs and floor below.

He fades, and his last thought is that he should've known better than to run through the mansion in his favorite blue socks.

 

 

_ Patient Name: Fushimi Saruhiko _

_ DOB: Nov. 7, 1993 _

_ Age: 10 years old _

_ Status: Undetermined _

_ Additional Comments: Admitted to ICU 6 days ago. Hasn't regained consciousness since. _

 

When Misaki is ten years old, he falls off his brand new skateboard and breaks his arm. With his pained scream comes his very concerned mother, and with his mother comes an immediate drive to the hospital. The whole way there, Misaki clutches his arm and wails, because it hurts it hurts  _ it hurts and he's going to die. _

Except he isn't going to die, or so the doctor tells him. It's only a break, he says, and it's nothing to die over.

“You're a tough boy, aren't you?” The doctor finishes applying his cast—it’s a bright apple red, Misaki's favorite color. “All you have to do is wear this cast for six weeks and you'll be good as new, Misaki-kun.”

“Okay,” he says. Curiously, he pokes the cast, and winces when a pulse of pain runs through his arm. “Ow!”

“Careful now, sweetie,” his mother says, hands fawning helplessly over him, “don't move it around too much!”

“But how am I gonna be able to skateboard if I can't move it around?”

The doctor chuckles. “You won't be able to do much physical activity for awhile, I'm afraid.”

“So no skateboarding?” he asks again, upset, and his mother shakes her head sadly at him.

“Now then, if you will follow me, Yata-san, there remains some paperwork to be filled out.”

His mother nods, “Stay here, okay, Misaki?” and follows the doctor out the door. Misaki pokes his cast again, much more lightly this time, and occupies himself by looking at the medical posters spread out over the tiny room’s walls.

His mother and the doctor have been gone for about five minutes when Misaki decides he wants to use the toilet and can't wait any longer. He hops off the table he'd been perched on, peeks his head around the door—there's no one outside, good—then proceeds to tiptoe out of the room.

Unfortunately, the hospital is a mess of twists and turns and all the doors look the same, so he finds himself lost within minutes. The proud feeling in his chest at making such a foolproof escape deflates.

“C’mon,” he whines, “it must be around here somewhere. . . ”

He's about to turn the corner, still on the lookout for any room with a male stick figure sign beside it, when he sees the nurse at the end of the hallway. Something tells him he's not supposed to be in this area of the hospital, and he panics, lunging for the nearest door and wrenching it open.

_ Beep . . . Beep . . . Beep . . . _

Inside the room, there's a beeping noise that assaults Misaki's ears, one that sounds something like his alarm clock but quieter. Startled, Misaki whirls around. Once he turns, though, the beeps are forgotten (later he finds they're coming from a heart rate monitor), because all he can do is stare.

There's a boy in this hospital room, Misaki realizes, and he looks a lot like death.

Hooked up to tendrils of wires and tubes, the boy lays under a thin blanket, his hospital gown way too big for him, bunched up around skinny shoulders. His face is small, made even smaller by the oxygen mask fitted over his mouth, and his pale white skin is pulled taut over delicate features. Bandages envelop every inch of his skull, save for a few strands of dark hair that peek through.

Misaki can't stop staring.

“Um,” his voice sounds awkward even to his own ears. “Hi. My name’s Yata, who are you? Are . . . Are you okay?”

No answer.

“Okay,” Misaki says slowly, “then do you know where the toilet is around here? I can't find it, you see, and I  _ really  _ need to go.”

Silence. The boy doesn't so much as stir.

“You asleep or something?” Misaki steps closer to the boy in the bed, inch by inch.

“What's your name? What happened to you? Are you going to . . . die?”

Now that he's closer, he can hear the boy’s shallow breathing, can see the boy’s breaths fog the mask. He waves a hand in front of the boy’s sleeping face.

“You sure are a heavy sleeper, whoever you are.”

“Misaki!”

Before he can so much as blink, his mother is there, in the doorway huffing and puffing with her hands on her knees. “Misaki, what on earth do you think you're doing? You can't be in here!”

“She's right,” the doctor says, walking up calmly from behind her. “This area is strictly off limits.”

Misaki feels ashamed, if for a moment; then he remembers the boy beside him. With his good hand, he points at the bed, “What's wrong with him?”

“Misaki!” his mother chides, but the doctor waves her scolding away with a slight smile.

“Saruhiko is about the same age as you, isn't he, Misaki-kun?” The doctor looks curious. “We believe that he has fallen into a comatose state. Do you know what that means?”

He’s glad to have a name to match with the mysterious boy, now.  _ Saruhiko.  _ “That's a fancy word for coma, right? When you fall asleep and can't wake up?”

“That's correct. We're not entirely positive, but our tests show the common symptoms of a comatose victim. We believe that is what is wrong with Saruhiko here.”

Misaki frowns, looks down at his broken arm that he complained so much about, and feels guilt seep into his stomach. “Saruhiko must be hurting a lot,” he mumbles. “Much more than I did.”

“That's not necessarily true. You did say a coma was ‘when you fall asleep and can't wake up’, yes? Do you feel any pain when you sleep, Misaki-kun?” He shakes his head. The doctor continues, “The same goes for Saruhiko. But, despite not feeling physical pain, he must be very lonely, don't you think?”

“Where are his parents?”

“Well, I'm afraid that information is confidential.” At Misaki's confused expression, he elaborates, “It's a secret. But I can say that he doesn't get visitors often, nor does he have any friends to keep him company.”

Misaki's eyes widen. “None at all?”

“None,” the doctor confirms. His violet eyes shine behind their glasses as he says, “Misaki-kun, if your mother allows it, how would you like to keep Saruhiko company instead?”

“Really?” His gaze moves from Saruhiko, sleeping obliviously through the conversation, toward his mother. “Can I, Mom? Can I?”

Her eyebrows knit together, the way they always do when she's hesitating. He's seen that look many times when he asks for a new video game. “Is that allowed, doctor?”

“Please, call me Munakata.” The doctor glances at an unfinished puzzle spread out on the table a few feet away. “And well, it is if I wish it to be.”

“Did you hear that, Mom? He said I can hang out with Saruhiko!”

Misaki doesn't know why he wants to be with this boy, this boy who doesn't speak, doesn't smile, doesn't even blink. He doesn't know why, but he does. Maybe it's because he wants to knows what this boy is like when he does  speak, when he does __ smile. Maybe he just wants to know what this boy is like in general, this boy like he's never seen before.

“Did you hear that, Saruhiko? Did you hear it?” Misaki grins at him, even if he's not awake to see it. “We're gonna be best friends!”

 

 

_ Patient Name: Fushimi Saruhiko _

_ DOB: Nov. 7, 1993 _

_ Age: 11 years old _

_ Status: Comatose _

_ Additional Comments: Very low GCS (3). No response to basic commands. Chances of recovery slim. _

 

“Yo, Saru!” says Misaki, as he pushes the door to the hospital room open. “What's up?”

He sits down in the plastic chair next to the bed, and the tiny seed of hope that always plants itself in his stomach sprouts up, the one that hopes maybe Saruhiko will open his eyes today—but no, they're still soundly closed, like always.

It's been a year since Misaki met Saruhiko; a year since he broke his arm and happened upon this room. It's been a year since Misaki declared the two of them would be friends no matter what it took.

It's been a year since Misaki met Saruhiko, but Saruhiko still hasn't met him.

With a disappointed sigh (it always starts like this when he comes, with the disappointment), he slides his homework out of his school bag. “I have even  _ more _ homework today, can you believe that? And it's math, too—ugh.”

As he works, struggling through equation after equation, he talks. He talks about his morning, talks about his afternoon, talks about what he ate for lunch that day—he talks about anything and everything, really, to fill up the silence that haunts this place like a ghost.

“Hey.” He scowls down at his worksheet, at the mess of numbers scrawled there. “I wonder if you were any good at this stuff? Or if you would be now, at least, if you were up?”

He could be a secret math genius, or he could be as stupid as Misaki is, or he could be somewhere in the middle. Misaki doesn't know—as much as he hates to admit it, he really knows  _ nothing  _ about this person he insists is his friend. He doesn't know his favorite food, he doesn't know what he likes to do for fun—he doesn't even know the color of his eyes.

At this thought, however, a light bulb blinks on in his head. “Saruhiko, I don't know if you can hear me or not, but—” He swallows. “I want to see what color your eyes are, so, you wouldn't mind, right?”

Misaki can't believe he's never thought of this before. A heartbeat passes before he leans over Saruhiko's bedside, peering into his face. His breathing behind his mask is light, quiet—unlike Misaki's, whose breathing sounds louder than the wheezes of the room’s old air conditioner.

“O-Okay, um. Here we go. And if you're not okay with it, well, then wake up and tell me yourself, got it?”

He takes a deep breath, assures himself that if a doctor can do it then he can do it, and lifts up Saruhiko's left eyelid with trembling fingers.

Blue.

A bleak, washed-out blue is what he finds. A deep blue sky murky with gray storm clouds, which would clear away if Saruhiko would just blink some life back into his eyes.

He imagines how Saruhiko's eyes would look if he was awake instead. They'd probably look much different than they do now, creepily blank and creepily broken.

He pulls away and decides not to look at Saruhiko's eyes again, not until he opens them for himself.

 

 

_ Patient Name: Fushimi Saruhiko _

_ DOB: Nov. 7, 1993 _

_ Age: 12 years old _

_ Status: Comatose _

_ Additional Comments: No noticeable changes.  _

 

Misaki is washing the dishes when his mother comes up behind him, arms laden with a tower of books tall enough to reach her chin.

“Mom?” He goes to turn the water off and stuffs the dripping plate into the drying rack. “What're those for?”

She sets her load—twenty books of all shapes and sizes, maybe more—onto the table. “You're going to the hospital this evening, right? Why don't you bring these with you and read to Saruhiko-kun?”

“But Moooom, do I have to? That's so boring!”

“Some reading would be good for the both of you.” She crosses her arms, a clear sign that she's not taking no for an answer. “Besides, Saruhiko-kun might even  _ like _ reading, did you think of that?”

He did not think of that, because no kid their age actually  _ likes  _ reading, that’s insane. But he knows a losing battle when he sees it, so he scoops up a book or two and peddles off toward the hospital with only minimal grumbling.

One fifteen minute bike ride later, he’s loitering outside Saruhiko's room, his book caught loosely between his fingers and a look of grim resignation on his face.

When he pushes the door open, though, someone’s beat him to it—there's already someone seated in the bedside chair, already with a book in hand.

“Munakata-san? What’re you doin’ here?”

“Ah, Misaki-kun. I wasn't expecting to see you here. How are you?” Closing his book, Munakata rises from the seat. “I was just leaving.”

“Were—Were you reading to him or something?”

“Hm?” His eyes seek out Misaki's own novel, tucked behind his back. “I was. Did you not plan to do that as well?”

Misaki's known this doctor now for all of two years, but still he squirms at that prying gaze. “T-T-That's none of your business! I was just—”

“I'm not making fun of you, Misaki-kun.” Munakata’s smile is almost unnerving. “In fact, I think it very admirable of you to read to Saruhiko. Other boys your age might not be so keen as to do something like that.”

“. . . Right.”

Before Munakata can go, Misaki feels another question rise on his tongue, one he's had for some time but never bothered to ask. Awkwardly, he clears his throat.

“Um, wait . . . Are those puzzles yours? The ones that are always on the table? ‘Cause you said Saru doesn't have any other visitors, so I just wondered where . . .”

“They are.” Munakata glances toward the latest puzzle scattered on the table, one depicting a big white blimp in a midnight sky. “It's a hobby of mine.”

Misaki’s gaze switches from the puzzle to the book to Munakata. Finally he gazes at Saruhiko in his bed, stifled in his sheets. “Why,” he asks, brow creased in thought, “Why do you come here so much? Aren't you, like, a really busy doctor?”

There's a heartbeat of silence before Munakata chuckles. “I suppose you could say Fushimi Saruhiko is a favorite patient of mine.”

When he leaves, Misaki stares blankly at the space he left behind, more confused than to begin with.

“Um . . .  That's a good thing, right?” He glances toward Saruhiko, as if he'll sit up and answer or something. “I mean, if you're the doctor’s favorite, he'd want to make sure you woke up really soon, yeah?”

He sits in the place Munakata left and scoots his chair closer to the bed. As gently as possibly, he raps a knuckle on Saruhiko’s temple. “You better wake up soon, stupid. Then I wouldn't have to read these boring books anymore, y’know?”

The room is silent, save for the rhythmic beats of the heart monitor. Misaki sighs.

He opens the book and, drawing in a gulp of air, begins to read.

“Once upon a time . . . ”

 

 

_ Patient Name: Fushimi Saruhiko _

_ DOB: Nov. 7, 1993 _

_ Age: 13 years old _

_ Status: Comatose _

_ Additional Comments: Nurse spotted foreign substance on patient’s right hand shortly after visiting hours- chocolate? _

 

On Valentine's Day, he's on his way to the hospital when he decides to buy a box of chocolates, because he's hungry and they're on sale and what does he have to lose.

He hides the heart-shaped box under his arms as he walks into the hospital lobby, embarrassed to be seen with something so . . . lovey dovey. He's almost to the elevator when one of the male nurses calls him over.

“Hey, Yata-chan. What's that box you got there?” The nurse, Kusanagi, tips a grin at him. “Does someone have a crush on our Yata-chan?”

“S-Shaddup! That—That’s not it at all!”

“You do know it's Valentine’s Day, right? If there's someone you like, you should be with them, not here.” An eyebrow raises. “Ah. Unless . . .”

“Unless what?” frowns Misaki. He doesn't understand the knowing look on the other’s face and it bugs him. “Unless  _ what _ , Kusanagi-san?”

“Nothing,” chuckles Kusanagi. “Don't worry about it. Have fun with Saru-chan.”

Confused, Misaki blinks at him. “Um. Okay? See ya, Kusanagi-san!”

He dashes into the elevator before the nurse can say anything else, because he's blushing and he doesn't know why and it must be Kusanagi’s fault, somehow. He brings his hands to his faces, attempts to smack the blush off his cheeks—if anything, they only redden further.

The elevator slides opens with a ding, and Misaki exits onto the fourth floor to see bright pink streamers, well, everywhere. They hang on the walls, the windows, the tops of the doors; he can even see a few strands of streamer wrapped around the handles of someone's wheelchair. There's tiny cut-out hearts plastered to the walls, teddy bears lined on the windowsills, and sweet smelling roses tucked behind the ears of patients and staff alike.

Misaki scowls. Eager to be far far away from the atrocious pink mess, he picks up the pace to Saruhiko's room, and he runs even faster when a nurse tries to put a rose in his hair.

Only to find that Saruhiko's room has been decorated in much the same way, once he walks inside, and his scowl turns into an outright groan.

“No way. No fucking way!”

In the blink of an eye, he's rounded the entire room—tearing off streamers, tossing stray rose petals out the window, knocking teddy bears off their table.

“Stupid,” he says, and he trashes a fistful of paper hearts. “They're gonna hurt a man’s pride with all this frilly pink stuff! What are they thinking!”

Minutes later—after he's finished returning the room to normal—he sinks into the chair and pulls the lid off his chocolates. They’re melted from being in his sweaty hands so long, but they taste good nonetheless.

He looks over to the mess of tubes that envelop Saruhiko, wondering which one feeds him. He wonders what that feels like, to have your food injected rather than swallowed, and feels his gut wrench.

The chocolate doesn't taste so good anymore. He sets it on the nightstand, on top of the pile of books he reads with each visit. “Sorry,” he whispers.

Today is supposed to be a good day for everyone, he knows—some people celebrate their lovers, other people  _ find _ their lovers, and those without love settle for the cheap chocolate instead. But to Saruhiko, today is nothing but another day passing by him, another day passing by where his eyes remain closed, and Misaki hates it.

“I'm sorry,” he says again, and his sticky chocolate fingers twist into Saruhiko's bony ones, and normally he'd feel embarrassed but he's too angry to. “Your life fucking  _ sucks _ , Saruhiko, and I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry.”

He doesn't want to let go of Saruhiko's hand.

 

 

_ Patient Name: Fushimi Saruhiko _

_ DOB: Nov. 7, 1993 _

_ Age: 14 years old _

_ Status: Comatose _

_ Additional Comments: Heartbeat fluctuations noted. _

 

When Misaki walks into the hospital room, he notices three things. One, there is someone else in the room. Two, said someone else has a hand knotted in Saruhiko's hair, for reasons unknown.

Three, the heart rate monitor is beeping much faster than normal.

“Oi, what . . .” Misaki's bookbag slides off his shoulder and onto the ground. “What are you doing? Who—who are you?”

The man isn't from the hospital, not that Misaki knows of—after four years of daily visits, he knows almost every staff member and this isn't one of them. He doesn't look like one, either: he’s dressed in a dark, long-sleeved shirt, black jeans with holes in the fabric, and jewelry lining his neck, hands, and wrists. A rubik’s cube dangles loosely from one of his ringed hands, the one that isn't in Saruhiko's hair.

“Why . . . Why is the . . .”

In the corner, the heart rate monitor beeps beeps beeps, loud and fast and panicked, while bright green lines zip across the screen. It's never done any of this before, Misaki realizes, and the thought is enough to constrict his throat and squeeze his stomach.

When Misaki struggles to figure out the source of the quickened beeps, his eyes fall on the stranger’s hand on Saruhiko's head, and then his confusion morphs into anger.

“Hey, you! Get away, you're scaring him!”

The man doesn't show any surprise at Misaki’s outburst. If anything, he pretends not to notice the redhead at all, eyes still on the sleeping boy before him. There's a slight smile on his face, but it looks frightening, somehow.

“You deaf or something? I said, back off! You're freaking him out—don't you hear that heart thingy? It's goin’ crazy!”

At last, the stranger looks at him, annoyed in the way a person would be seeing a pesky fly. Misaki’s eyes widen a touch, because this man looks familiar, oddly enough, but he can't put his finger on why.

“He's fine,” the man says, as his lips twitch into a sneer. “My little monkey’s just excited to see me. Isn't that right, Saruhiko~?”

The man’s fingers crawl down from Saruhiko's dark hair to his breathing mask, mindlessly tapping on the piece of plastic, and Misaki's own breath snags.

“H-Hey, stop messing with that! You're gonna hurt Saru!”

The frenzied beeps are still way too loud and way too fast in Misaki's ears, so he clamps his hands over his head. He doesn't stop to think that hey, maybe the faster beeping is a good thing. Maybe it's a sign that his friend’s awareness of the world around him is improving or something like that. He doesn't stop to think about any of this, because he's never been much of a thinker but his gut tells him something here feels  _ wrong _ , so there's really no need to think, is there.

Instead, he acts. Instead, he crosses the room and places himself in front of his friend, fists clenched. Instead, he pushes the man away as hard as his smaller, less developed body will allow, which isn't much.

Instead, he checks to make sure to sure the breathing mask is safely secured, then double-checks, then triple-checks. Instead, he grabs Saruhiko's hand and squeezes tight.

“What are you, his bratty kid bodyguard?”

It takes everything in him to hold the man’s darkened gaze. He has to crane his neck to do it, though, and he inwardly curses his height for what feels like the millionth time.

But still he tips his chin up even further, piles together what bravery he has left, and says, “Yup. Gotta help him fight off creeps like you.”

“. . . A creep, huh.”

There's a tense pause, and Misaki thinks the man is going to get violent, what with the scary look he’s got and the threat in his eyes—but then he just sighs, and all the emotion wipes entirely off his face.

“It's no fun anyway,” he mutters. “You're no  _ fun _ anymore, Saruhiko.”

Confused, Misaki frowns. Before he can say anything else, though, there's a call from the doorway.

“Fushimi Niki?”

A nurse stands on the threshold to the room, peering at the two over her clipboard. “Fushimi Niki,” she says again, “you were due in the exam room five minutes ago. Or did you not want to get your organs checked after all?”

The surname name sounds familiar, too familiar. Misaki's eyes widen. “Hey, are you . . . ?”

The man doesn't respond, only snorts a breath of laughter and leaves the room, hands thrusted in his pockets. He doesn't give a single glance behind him. The nurse follows him out, muttering something about uncooperative patients.

The entire ordeal leaves Misaki with one massive headache. He sits down on the side of the bed, hand still clasped with Saruhiko's.

“Say, Saruhiko. Was that your dad?”

Misaki's heart is beating hard, so hard he can feel it when he presses his palm to his chest. Meanwhile, he notices with relief, sometime in all the confusion the heart rate monitor had gone back to normal, the beeps soft and steady.

“If he was . . . Sorry. I don't like him. He gave me the creeps.” He can't even really explain why; it's more of a physical reaction than a mental one. All he knows is that his behavior was odd, to say the least, and not the way a father’s behavior should be.

A small part of Misaki wonders, not for the first time, how Saruhiko landed himself in a coma in the first place.

“You won't be like that guy when you wake up, will you? ‘Cause it'd really suck if I spent all this time with you only for you to wake up all creepy and weird like that.”

An even smaller part of Misaki wonders, for the first time, if Saruhiko will wake up at all.

He chases the thought away with a laugh, and tells Saruhiko what he thinks Saruhiko will be like once he wakes up, because he'll wake up, he will he will he will, and he'll be someone Misaki will be happy to call his friend, he's sure of it.

 

 

_ Patient Name: Fushimi Saruhiko _

_ DOB: Nov. 7, 1993 _

_ Age: 15 _

_ Status: Comatose _

_ Additional Comments: No noticeable changes. _

 

“Say, Yata-san. Why’re we here, again? It smells like disinfectants or something, and it's bugging my nose . . . “

Misaki walks past hospital room after hospital room, the pathway more familiar to him than the back of his hand. “I told ya a million times, Kamamoto, we're here to see Saruhiko. Now shut up and lemme concentrate; all these doors look the same and I don't want to pass it up.”

“Oh, right. Uh . . . Who is he, again?”

“Kamamoto!” he says, and punches him in the shoulder, “he's my friend!”

Sheepishly, Kamamoto rubs his shoulder. “Right. Sorry, Yata-san.”

“Whatever.” They reach the correct room, and Misaki pushes the door open.

“Yo, Saru! This is that new friend of mine I was tellin’ you about—Kamamoto, say hi.”

“But . . .” There's a baffled look on Kamamoto’s face, as he stares. “But he's asleep.”

“Yeah, so?” Misaki folds his arms across his chest. “I told you, he's in a  _ coma.  _ But he can still hear you, so it's fine.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just do, okay? Now are you gonna introduce yourself or not?”

“Um . . .” Lips pulled into an awkward grimace-smile sort of thing, he mumbles, “Hey.”

“There, now you're all acquainted and stuff.” Misaki grins, situates himself in the chair beside Saruhiko, and gives him a pointed look. “Now, if you could just say something  _ back _ to Kamamoto, that'd be great.”

The boy remains silent, per usual, so Misaki busies himself by adjusting his sheets and fixing his hair (“Worst bed-head I've ever seen, Saru. Is it even possible for hair to stick up like that?”). When he reaches forward to twine their fingers together, though, he hears a noise from behind him.

“Yata-san,” Kamamoto looks as if he's trying not to laugh, “what're you doing?”

For a moment, Misaki had forgotten Kamamoto was there. He flushes bright pink and yanks his hand away. “Shaddup, you fatso, I wasn't doing anything!”

“Uh huh.” Kamamoto doesn’t seem to believe a word he says, and Misaki wonders if the fact that he's been holding hands with this comatose boy for the last two years is really that obvious.

“Idiot, I'm serious! I wasn't!”

There's a pregnant pause before the light tone in his friend’s voice turns into something different, something more serious. “How long has this guy been in a coma, anyway?”

Misaki fiddles with the bedsheets, and the answer pops into his head instantly but he doesn't really want to say it. He does anyway. “Five years.”

“Woah, you’re serious?”

“Yeah.”

“And you've been hanging with him that whole time?”

“Yeah.”

“He could turn out to be a real jerk, though, when he wakes up.”

“He won't.”

Kamamoto’s mouth twitches guiltily, and his eyes take a sudden interest in his sneakers. “What if he doesn't wake up at all?”

“Kamamoto!” Misaki's heart gives a painful thud against his ribcage, fingers tightening around the sheets. “What the fuck, man? That won't happen!”

He flinches at Misaki's outburst, but still continues, “I've seen it in the movies, though. When the guy won't wake up and the family has no choice but to unplug ‘em . . .”

Misaki wants to cover his ears, because he doesn't want to hear this and if he doesn't hear it then it’ll go away, right.

Or, he could just punch the living shit out of Kamamoto to shut him up; that would work, too.

“It's not like he's brain dead,” he finally grits out through his teeth. “The doc would have told me if he was.”

“I'm just saying, Yata-san. If anything does go wrong . . . ” A glare is fired his way, and Kamamoto puts his hands up as surrender. “Sorry, sorry! All I'm tryin’ to say is to be careful, alright? I mean, being friends with a guy who's pretty much knockin’ on death’s door . . . it's like asking to get yourself hurt.”

The words sink into Misaki's head, the words scramble his thoughts and turn his brain to mush. For a moment, he feels lightheaded, as if these words spinning round his skull have dizzied him somehow. He brings a fist to his thigh and squeezes it.

“I got it, Kamamoto.”

They've always been coming, these stupid words. They’ve lingered in the back of his mind, waited in the corner like a shadow. Now that they've come into the light, out loud and booming with clarity, Misaki wants more than anything for them to leave.

They don't.

 

 

_ Patient Name: Fushimi Saruhiko _

_ DOB: Nov. 7, 1993 _

_ Age: 16 _

_ Status: Comatose _

_ Additional Comments: Heartbeat fluctuations. Increased GCS. Visitor Yata Misaki suspected of being harmful to patient's recovery; claim later assuaged by Munakata Reisi. _

 

They say the longer someone is in a coma, the harder it is to recover. They say the longer someone is in a coma, the more disoriented they’ll be. They say the longer someone is in a coma, the easier it is for their loved ones to lose hope.

They say the longer someone is in a coma, the better the chances are that they’ll never wake up.

After hearing bits and pieces of chatter from the nurses at the hospital, Misaki slowly learned all of this. He learned all of this, but in all honesty, didn’t really give a shit—because that may be true but they’re going to defy the odds, him and Saruhiko. His belief in this, in them, is so strong that he doesn’t let any of these words touch him, doesn’t let them touch him for years.

But six years of sleeping sure is a lot, isn’t it.

Nowadays, Misaki has no choice but to notice how much time has passed. One look at Saruhiko himself, at his longer limbs, at his more adult-like features, and Misaki can tell they’re not the kids they used to be. Misaki isn’t in his apple red cast anymore, awed by a small, fragile boy sleeping the world away.

Saruhiko went so far as to sleep his childhood away, and Misaki can feel his patience going along with it. It's harder and harder to keep a smile on his face when he knows Saruhiko can't see it.

“You can't do this anymore, Saruhiko.” He grips Saruhiko's fingers—it’s become a reflex, now—and notices how much longer they are, how slimmer. “My mom used to yell at me for sleeping through my alarm clock, did you know that? I was late for school so many times.”

He glances at the heart monitor hung up on the wall, beeping and beeping and  _ beeping. _ It's annoying.

“Quit sleeping through your alarm clock, asshole. C’mon.” He pokes Saruhiko in the arm. “Can't you hear it?”

No. He can't hear anything,  and chances are he never will if it stays like this.

Misaki feels his voice rise, rise, rise—he  _ needs _ Saruhiko to hear him, to reach him, before it’s too late. Before the things people say become true for them, too.

“Oi! Can't you hear me?” he yells. “I know you're in there—so just sit up and say something already!”

His heart pounds against his ribs, wild and reckless and free. It beats in his lungs, crawls to his tongue, pours into his voice. Misaki almost wishes Saruhiko could hear it.

“Saruhiko!” He leans forward, fists his friend’s hospital gown—if he can't hear, maybe he can feel instead—and shakes him hard, all common sense flying out the window. “Dammit, wake up already!”

He tightens his grip on the wrinkled gown to stop the tremors in his hands. He's lost in emotions he can't even begin to identify; they blend into something like anger, only he's not sure who exactly he's angry at, if it's Saruhiko or himself or the whole wide world. He doesn't know.

The blue hospital cloth is ripping in his hands. He doesn't notice. “I don't understand. Do you want to be like this forever?” His voice is still loud, but it quivers along the edges. “Do you want me to wait forever?”

Sometimes, he really hates how much this boy has affected him. He hates the way his jaw tightens with frustration, lips twist with fury, eyes burn with hopelessness.

Most of all, he hates that as much as this boy has affected him, he hasn't affected Saruhiko at all.

The anger leaves as quick as it came, to be replaced with exhaustion. His body shudders, and he sags into Saruhiko's chest, eyes screwed shut. Faintly, as he rests his head against the other’s collarbone, he can hear the thumps of a still-working heart. Pressing himself closer, he strains to hear each and every beat.

It reminds him that his friend isn't as lifeless as he appears to be.

The beats lulls Misaki to sleep, and he dreams of a world where Saruhiko is awake, eyes blue as the sky, lips lifted into a smile that could make everything worth it.

Misaki wishes he doesn’t have to wake up when visiting hours are over.

 

 

_ Patient Name: Fushimi Saruhiko _

_ DOB: Nov. 7, 1993 _

_ Age: 17 _

_ Status: Comatose _

_ Additional Comments: No noticeable changes. _

 

Misaki has his hand on the doorknob when he hears two voices coming from inside Saruhiko's room. He stops, hand frozen mid-twist over the knob. It's rare that Saruhiko has any visitors beside Misaki himself, so he can't help but feel curious now. He stays perfectly silent, if to find out who the voices are, at least.

“Seven years, huh.” The words are spoken by a gruff voice, low and deep, clearly a man’s. Misaki doesn't recognize it. “You sure the kid’s even alive?”

“I wouldn't have him in this room if he weren't, Suoh.” This voice, however, Misaki  _ does _ recognize—it’s Saruhiko's doctor, Munakata. He sounds slightly irritated, perhaps because of whoever it is he's talking to.

Normally, Misaki really isn't one to eavesdrop. But this time, he leans forward, pressing his ear to the door—because he’s aware that Munakata hasn't told him everything there is to know, and if this is how he has to find out, well, so be it.

“Think he'll ever wake up?” the man called Suoh asks, the question uttered so low that Misaki has to crush the side of his head against the door to catch it.

Munakata sighs. “If he does, things will be difficult for him. He’ll be waking up in a teenage body—or an adult one, if it takes that long—with the mind of a ten year old, and that'll prove for a very hard recovery. Though I did try to advance his mental maturity to the best of my ability through reading and various exercises.”

There's a long silence, and Misaki swallows hard. He doesn't want to hear anymore of this. But he's drawn to the conversation like a pedestrian to a car crash, so his ears remain alert.

“. . . Think he  _ wants _ to wake up?”

“Suoh,” chuckles Munakata, but there's no humor in it, “would you?”

Misaki’s grip on the door knob tightens.

“I think,” continues Munakata, “whether or not he wakes up is up to him now. There is nothing else we can do for him. If he doesn't want to wake up, he won't. If he has no reason left to live,” his voice doesn't waver, “then he doesn't have to.”

Misaki can't listen to this anymore; it hurts his ears, hurts his chest. Before he can think twice, the door is pushed open wide and he's in the room.

“Yes, he does!” he bursts out. He glares defiantly at the two people in front of him. “He  _ does _ have to live! I'm his best friend, so  _ I’ll  _ be his reason to live, you hear?”

The two stare at him, seemingly unaffected by his appearance. Munakata might even be  _ smiling.  _ The other man, Suoh, covers a yawn with his hand, about as lively as the lamp in the corner of the room. Even so, he excuses an intimidating aura, what with his spiky hair and leather jacket, and Misaki resists the urge to take a step back.

“I was wondering when you planned on making yourself known, Misaki-kun.” Munakata’s glasses seem to glint. “I thought you might stay behind that door forever.”

“You—You knew I was there?” he splutters.

“But of course,” replies Munakata.  “In fact, Suoh here was the one who pointed it out to me.”

Misaki turns to the redhaired man, who just shrugs.

“As for you being Saruhiko's reason to live,” the doctor glances toward the sleeping boy as he says it, and his voice doesn't soften but his eyes do. “Well, that was the plan all along, wasn't it?”

_ Misaki-kun, if your mother allows it, how would you like to keep Saruhiko company instead? _

Misaki blinks, one two three times. “You,” he says. “You used me?”

“I suppose you could put it that way,” muses Munakata. “You were essential to Saruhiko's potential recovery. There is only so much our staff can do, you see. We can save lives, but only if that life wants to be saved.”

“So . . . me being here for Saru is helpful after all? I'm not doing all this for nothing?”

“We’ll simply have to wait and see.” Violet eyes spark with something akin to power. “Saruhiko certainly has been the biggest challenge yet . . . Perhaps that is what I like most about him.”

Misaki isn’t sure what to think about this, not really, but the fact that Saruhiko is the doctor’s hardest challenge makes him feel no better, at all.

Leaning against the windowsill, Suoh grunts. Eyes on the  _ NO SMOKING _ sign tacked to the wall, his hand gives an almost unnoticeable twitch. “You done?”

“Ah, just about. Have a little patience for once, will you?” Munakata offers Misaki an apologetic smile. “Forgive me. I was just about to have lunch.”

“Right. Okay. See ya, then.”

“Misaki-kun.” Munakata’s voice comes out almost demanding; it snags his attention instantly. “One more thing.”

“Eh? What is it?”

“In all my years working here, I have lost only one patient.” If Misaki hadn't been looking so intently at Munakata as he said this, he might have noticed the sudden change in Suoh, the creasing of the skin around his eyes and the pain lingering in his expression, which suggests perhaps he and this lost patient are connected. Misaki misses it.

“I do not plan to lose another.”

 

 

_ Patient Name: Fushimi Saruhiko _

_ DOB: Nov. 7, 1993 _

_ Age: 18 _

_ Status: Undetermined _

_ Additional Comments: NA _

 

When Misaki is eighteen years old, he moves out and rents himself an apartment. It's small and cramped, but the rent is cheap—which was good, because it meant he had enough leftover money to buy not one bed but two.

“Just in case,” he had told Saruhiko the day he bought the bunk beds. “Just in case you've got nowhere to go when you wake up, alright? Don't want you ending up homeless or something.”

But buying himself an apartment had its consequences, too. Being finally free from parental supervision, he was elated—so elated he deemed it necessary to play video games long into the night, every night, just because he can.

Now, though, with dark bags under his eyes and slumped, tired shoulders, he thinks maybe all those sleepless nights weren't such a great idea after all.

When he walks into the hospital lobby, Kusanagi takes one look at him before passing over a hospital-made coffee.

“You look terrible, Yata-chan,” he says. An eyebrow quirks up. “Don't tell me you stayed up all night playing video games again?”

Misaki laughs it off nervously (“Haha, of course not, Kusanagi-san! What would make you think that?”) before making a beeline for Saruhiko's room. The coffee is hot in his hands, even through the styrofoam cup.

“Ow, ow,  _ ow!”  _ He tears the coffee lid off, blowing furiously on the steaming brown liquid—but that's still not enough, it still feels like his hands are burning, so he quickens his pace into a jog, the only thought on his mind that he needs to set this thing down before he melts.

In Saruhiko's room, he forgets that he left his skateboard on the floor during his last visit. He forgets and, being the idiot he is, doesn't remember until he trips right over it.

His mouth opens in surprise, but there's no time to even make a sound before he's in the air. Him and the opened coffee both are airborne for all of half a second, him flailing; then they collide with the bed, their fall cushioned by the pillows, the sheets, and Saruhiko himself.

“. . . Shit.” Face beet red with shame (How could he trip over  _ his own board? How?)  _ and embarrassment, he pushes himself off Saruhiko's legs with both hands—until horror strikes him hard, because how he can use both hands if a cup of coffee was just in one of them.

The empty coffee cup landed on the floor. The coffee itself, however, has splashed all over Saruhiko—his gown, his arms, his face; it even drips from his breathing mask—and it's all Misaki's fault.

“Fuck!” He cusses, whirling around in search of a towel, “Dammit, I’m such an idiot, are you okay?”

Saruhiko doesn't answer, of course. Misaki finds a towel and leaps on the bed, situated carefully over Saruhiko so as not to injure him further, sitting lightly on his waist. He presses the towel to the teen’s arms and scrubs, madly.

When his towel climbs up to a particularly nasty coffee burn on Saruhiko's collarbone, he pauses, and Saruhiko may not feel pain in this state but Misaki still can't help but feel guilty.

“Sorry.” He swallows hard. “Sorry, Saru.”

He knows he should get a nurse, now; a nurse could whip out her handy dandy medical supplies and make the skin look good as new, but.

But he can't help but remember how he broke his arm when he was ten years old, how it was treated by the cold, cold hands of the doctors and nurses, the entire procedure icily apathetic. He can't help but remember how he didn't feel better until his mom kissed his apple red cast and told him everything would be all right.

No one has ever done that for Saruhiko.

It's idiotic, what Misaki does next. It's childish, stupid, embarrassing. But he does it anyway.

He leans down, kisses Saruhiko's burnt collarbone, and tells him everything will be all right.

He isn't talking about the coffee burn, either.

The reddened skin under his lips is hot to the touch, smelling of spilled coffee and vanilla hospital soap. Misaki breathes it in, blushing profusely as he does so, and he's very relieved no one else is here to see him in this moment.

Saruhiko's eyes open.

Misaki almost misses it, the most important event in his life. He almost misses the way the sleeping boy’s lashes flutter, almost misses the splash of blue that is Saruhiko's irises. He almost misses it all, almost misses everything he's ever wanted.

But he doesn't miss the minute Saruhiko's heart begins to beat harder under the coffee-soaked towel, under Misaki’s trembling fingertips, the heart monitor spiraling into a storm of loud loud beeps, and this is a dream, right. It has to be.

In a daze, he jerks away from Saruhiko’s collarbone and pulls his gaze up. Blue eyes blink at him, slowly, confusedly; they're glassy and shimmery, unfocused, but they're amazing, absolutely amazing to Misaki, because they teem with something unmistakably alive.

He is still sitting on Saruhiko's knees, but neither seem to notice. He feels his eyes begin to burn with something akin to tears, but neither seem to notice that either.

“S. . . Saru . . . hiko?” His voice comes out wobbly and pathetic; he clears his throat several times to steady it. “You—You’re—”

If he thought  _ his  _ voice was the pathetic one, boy was he wrong. Saruhiko stares at him, stares long enough to make Misaki uncomfortable because he isn't used to this, isn't used to these deep blue eyes. When he clears his throat, it sounds painful; when he speaks, it sounds like torture.

“. . . B-Blue . . .” His voice is almost inaudible, low and scratchy, muffled behind his breathing mask. It sounds as if he hasn't spoken in years, which is true, “. . . socks. Shouldn't have . . . worn . . . blue socks.”

Misaki has no idea what this means, but he can't find it in him to care. Finally Saruhiko has said something and it could have been the stupidest thing known to man; Misaki's heart wouldn't have jumped any less.

“Saruhiko,” he says, and grabs the other boy’s hand. Saruhiko goes rigid. “Do you know where you are? Do you know . . . do you know _who_  you are?”

Saruhiko has his head tilted, if slightly—and that's when Misaki suspects that maybe Saruhiko is listening to his voice rather than his words, as if he recognizes it somehow.

A dangerous kind of hope swells within Misaki, one in which he dares to believe in.

“Do you,” he squeezes Saruhiko's fingers tighter, lets the hope grow and blossom. “Do you know who I am?”

They stare at each other, close enough to watch the other’s chest rise and fall. Silence falls, and it's the most weighted silence the hospital room’s ever known. For the first time, Misaki finds himself unable to break it.

Featherlight, Saruhiko squeezes his hand back.

“You're . . . Yata Misaki. You're my . . . ”

Saruhiko stops, mouth thin with frustration. Misaki chews on his bottom lip until he tastes red.

“Best friend?” Misaki finally suggests, and the grip between their hands is so sweaty, so shaky, but neither let go.

_ Did you hear that, Saruhiko? Did you hear it? We're gonna be best friends! _

“. . . Yeah. That.”

Misaki blinks, blinks again, and smiles bright through the tears that spill down his face.


End file.
